


Dousing the Flame

by oh_so_loverly



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Catching Fire AU, F/M, Forced Marriage, sexual exploitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_so_loverly/pseuds/oh_so_loverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based upon Prompt 22 of the Everlark Fanfic Exchange. Anonymous suggested, 'Canon Divergent fic where the Quarter Quell never happens and Katniss and Peeta have to continue living their lives in front of the Capitol.' </p><p>(rating mature in anticipation of things to come!)</p><p>[Obviously, I do not own The Hunger Games, nor the characters in it.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 The silence of the barren home resounds around me. My hands, having nothing better to do, swirl the last dregs of tea leaves about in the long-chilled mug. The musty shack lets the dust thickly frost abandoned washbins and counters. The table where Prim once laid out my Reaping Day breakfast has warped, from an unattended leak in the ceiling. I should take better care of this place, I know. If anything were to happen to me, my mother and sister will need to move back here. A shudder runs through me, at the thought. It was proven to be more of a possibility than anyone had let us know, during our Victory Speech in District Two several months ago. The memory of shots ringing out, of Peeta slumping to the cobblestone floor haunt my already troubled dreams. The sob choked out of my chest, my panic and tears doing nothing to allay his injury. Faintest, shallow breaths escaping his lips before Peacekeepers dragged me away from him. Peeta still has the scars on his chest and arms, bitter reminders as achingly hard for me to see as his offset leg. The fear of loss, of all my work to keep him safe, _him,_ the kindest boy I know being in vain. The memory of Snow’s approving nod, during our feast at his mansion, comes full-forced, kicks at me to drown in my punishment until all I can do is stop myself from crying out.

Watching the water stains, as if they might sprout to life any moment, and offer a solution, I try to remind myself of the girl I was when I lived here. Secure, in the stability, in the monotony of my life, in the assurance that we were only better off than near-corpses. How strange it is, to long for that. To long for the threat of starvation, rather than a life filled with unattainable expectations and a mansion filled with cameras. A mansion where I am expected to move in with a boy I don’t love, cannot love. But also cannot lose.

They’re renovating the one just next door to our current one, Capitol votes deciding the colors of each room and the design of each cabinet and sofa. I am to start a family with him, live out the rest of our lives together, smiling annually for our devoted fans. And then, when the children are old enough, made to atone for my crimes against the President. He never said it in so many words, but I know, and so does Peeta. Why else make us have children, other than to punish their parents? That’s what the Games are about, after all.

It seems a lifetime ago, that I snuck out of here to get in some hunting. A lifetime since my world turned upside down. The Reaping, the pin, the interview, the confession, the kisses, the berries, the Tour, the nights on the train, the shooting, the proposal, the meeting with Snow, the mentoring… the list becomes overwhelming. Who was I? Who was the Girl on Fire? I don’t think I can be her anymore. I don’t even know how.

Would the old me leave all of these others behind, like I’d suggested that morning so long ago? It was always a daydream, a distant thought. I don’t think I’d ever actually have gone through with it.

I never would have thought I would use Peeta to get home. Yet here we are.

Our group would be too large. Gale refuses to leave. Or he did the last time we got the chance to talk in private. He says we— no, _I_ have a duty to the people who are suffering. I can’t do it without his help. I can’t make it in the woods without him. I can’t leave Peeta, and Peeta… Peeta will never leave everyone behind to suffer. His brothers, his parents- and how could we move such a large group, without attracting attention? The hand of the Capitol presses down here, harder than before. They made have remade my cheek, but I can practically feel the sting of the whip against my face. We had been miserable, but invisibly so. We’ve reminded the Capitol of our District, Peeta and I. There are consequences.

Despite the warmth of the summer day, some part of me feels cold, frozen to the spot. I’m meant to be home, in an hour, to be plucked and pruned until the white straightjacket swallows me whole. It isn’t a real straightjacket, of course. 

It’s my wedding dress. The one I’d modeled just after the end of this year’s Games. The one anyone in my District would find absolutely revolting. Maybe Madge or another prominent Merchant girl might have dreamed of some elaborate toasting, but mostly, weddings in my district are a quiet affair. This dress, though, is a monstrosity. Cinna partly designed it, and so it isn’t as awful as I tend to think. But it’s ridiculously extravagant.

It probably costs about a lifetime’s worth of game.

I would prefer if we could’ve put the money towards our tributes this year.

The ones Peeta and I had been forced to handpick for the Quell.

The ones who were targeted and hacked to death by a Career from District Two.

Bile makes me gulp heavily, wishing I had something stronger to add to my drink.

A yowl startles me, and I push back the chair in my rush to stand. Buttercup has made his own way in, as unhappy with our new home as I am. I have fewer fresh game to offer him, even today. But he hasn’t hissed in a few weeks at me. It’s something. Peeta’s temporarily move into our spare bedroom has thrown our morning routines off, too, though Peeta seems to be in the cat’s good graces. Peeta says he isn’t needed at home. I know he’s worried about me, trying to sneak off to the woods again, considering my injury this past winter. It’s a dangerous pursuit. I can’t say I blame him for his concern. 

There’s a power generator in the Seam, to electrify the fence constantly. They arrested ten families to get the space for it, a whipping for each adult, televised. Peeta and I were forced by Thread to make a speech in front of the Justice Building, to condemn the supposed ‘disloyalty’ of our own people. I felt sick through it, the words ash on my tongue. Peeta’s grip on my hand had been so tight, I thought we both would crack. The families were subsequently evicted. My mother and Prim tended their wounds. Only a handful of people in the Seam will even look at me now, if and when I pass through.

Added trenches and reinforced concrete have been added to the fencing, to boot. There’s a small section, further north, that has a bit of a soft spot. I haven’t risked it more than twice in the past month. Each time, Peeta has been furious with me. I’m sure I’ll hear about it, which is part of why I hesitate to head straight back to Victor’s Village. He has probably figured it, in my absence. He would’ve awoken to an empty bed, his warmth having coaxed me from the nightmares that haunt me each evening. Add to the images from our Games, Peeta’s lifeless body on the cobblestone of District Two, riddled with bullets, the brutal killings of our tributes in the Quell, and the bloodied backs of our own citizens following their ‘light’ punishments… I wonder if the blood will ever leave my hands.

The woods, once my only escape, can only offer me sanctuary through a gauntlet.

Vick Hawthorne’s been ill. He needs some of the herbs we can’t get inside the barricade. Once upon a time, the Hob might have had something, and I could trade for it. But no black markets have dared set up shop. Gale would never have asked me to go in his place, would’ve done it himself if he’d been able, only Vick’s fever had worsened late in the night. Hazelle wasn’t meant to sneak her son to my mother so long past curfew. It was a good thing she had, though. Vick had a seizure on our kitchen table. 

With Gale having moved out of her house, unable to make the slightest move without being questioned by Thread, Hazelle had to risk it. The surveillance has followed Gale out of the Hawthorne’s shack, left his family in relative peace. It also left them with a distanced breadwinner. Limited protection. Even Gale’s Sunday morning respites became impossible shortly after the Quarter Quell. They have doubled the demand each worker must fulfill. When he comes out from the pit, he looks like a walking corpse. Can barely string coherent sentences together. The anger fills his eyes, and his words- when he cares to speak to me.

My hands shake. I try to still them. Buttercup abruptly attacks my leg, trying to bite at my knee. Hissing as his nails hook through the fabric of my trousers, I struggle to grasp the cat by the scruff. He dodges me and I give up, feigning a kick before watching him run out the door. Finally moving from my space in the home, I bolt the door behind me. 

I toss the used leaves into the bush outside the front steps, tucking the mug into my game bag, before heading home. I try to avoid thoughts of how familiar this morning feels, equal parts avoiding all the ways in which it is changed from barely a year ago. The physical, charred remains of the Hob weigh on my mind, though it has been razed, turned into a Peacekeeper check-point. Gale nearly died, twice over. The guilt lodges in my throat, making it impossible for me to even look at him. The burning disappointment from him doesn’t help, either. I pause as I make my way towards Victor’s Village, watching miners emerge from their shifts. I squint, trying to pick Gale out from the crowd, but give up after a time. He’s made it clear how he feels, what he expects from me. 

He doesn’t understand how much has changed. 

My sore legs pad on.

I have an eery suspicion, as I approach the Village, and purposely slow my steps. Will the President be in our house? Will he have gone through that trouble again? Forcing myself to face the possibility, I muddle on through the rain-sodden path.

I slide my feet out of my hunting boots, hanging my jacket and game bag on the coat-hangs. I find my mother working on our lunch of lamb stew, already smelling delicious and making my stomach rumble. Peeta, I find, is playing chess with Haymitch, only perhaps two or three moves in to their game. I try to make as little noise as possible, but a creak in the floorboards gives me away. Blue eyes meet mine, before quickly returning to the chessboard. 

“Hey.” Spotted, I edge into the room, skirting along the wall and settling next to the fire. 

“Hey.” Peeta motions to the coffee table. “There’s some cheesebuns, fresh from the ovens.”

“Thank you,” I reply, breaking off a piece of one. Steam drifts up and the scent brings a smile to my lips. The rich morsel against my tongue makes me close my eyes, relishing in the taste of the delicacy. 

Peeta heads to the bakery each morning, bringing a batch back often before mid-morning. He knows they are my favorite. I don’t know how I could ever get used to the luxury. Or used to his kindness.

I open my eyes to find him watching me, and we exchange a smile. The guilt blooms from nowhere, even as I keep a steady gaze. The eternity of his kindness, and my inability to ever repay him in kind. My inability to make this real. I’ve made it real enough for the President. It’s not real in my heart.

I’ve felt it, though, flicker like a warm spark. The night after he was shot, it became a warm fire. When I went to the hospital, saw him pale against white hospital sheets. I held him, so glad to feel his arms slowly wrapping around me, to press my face against the crook of his neck. To hear him whisper my name. His reassurance that he was all right.

Haymitch purposely flicks Peeta’s king down, and I’m released from the gaze of my fiancé. Peeta chuckles, while Haymitch curses, saying the moves Peeta’s making are illegal. Peeta takes it in good stride, but I can see his eyes on me every so often.

Prim calls us to dinner. I wipe my hands off, pretending to not have been eating dessert first. Haymitch heads back to his house, saying he’s got his own lunch. I know his will be at the bottom of a bottle, but neither Peeta nor I comment on it.

“How was your walk?” Peeta inquires, taking my hand as we head for the kitchen. 

I avoid his eyes, knowing that he knows. “Fine.”

Peeta doesn’t add to it. He doesn’t need to. 

“Vick needed herbs.” I defend, against an unsaid criticism. 

“Katniss.” He stops, hand tightening to keep me from walking away. I meet his gaze, and his disappointment rivals that of Gale. “Please. It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” I acknowledge. “But I can’t-“

“When I woke up, you weren’t there.” His voice breaks and my stomach slowly begins to knot, the guilt building like a lead weight. I know, I _know_ why he needs to see that I’m safe. His nightmares are what he paints with vivid horror, the gore and the terrifying events of our Games. Being separated from me, though, not knowing where I am, not knowing whether I am safe or not, is a different form of torture for him. “I’m not trying to keep you prisoner here. But it’s not safe, for you.”

He isn’t just talking about the dangers of trying to sneak through the barricade, isn’t just speaking of the new Head Peacekeeper, isn’t just talking about Snow. He’s talking about what we’ve noticed, even here, in our District. The suspicious looks, the notes or half-heard discussions. Madge told me, in quiet confidence, that someone at school spoke of how Peeta and I should both be dead. I don’t go anymore, since Victors don’t typically attend school even if they aren’t eighteen. But there are whispers, of how much better our deaths would make life here. How much better it would be if we had never survived in the first place. And if some are saying it, within hearing range of my friends, there have to be more saying things even worse out of their earshot.

“I’m sorry.” I want to add that it won’t happen again, I suppose that would satisfy him even though he would know it to be a lie. I can’t make a promise like that, not with the way things are. I’m trying to be honest. “I had to.”

Peeta drops my hand, running through his hair. He looks like he wants to say more, but Prim interrupts us.

The prep team will be here in a half hour. The train, once we have boarded, will take us straight to the Capitol. I’m almost glad for the stink of the chemicals, and the freakish makeup designs they have in store for us. 

The Capitol does own us, after all . 

Even if Cinna and Portia refuse to permit facial alterations.

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s arm encircles mine. I press closer to him than before, as we enter the President’s mansion. Tomorrow afternoon will be the extravagant, hours-long ceremony, here, in the President’s own courtyard. The decorations and festivities are out of our hands. Our families have not even been invited. This is an event for the Capitolites, not for us. 

For today, though, the only obligation is to smile and wave at all of the citizens in the Capitol who fawn on us. 

The only obligation is to pretend we aren’t pretending.

Shoes tap against marble floors, a deadly silence allowing the sounds to echo as we go. This isn’t the first time we’ve been lead upstairs, to the President’s private office. We were here before the Quarter Quell. Then there had been other Victors. This time, it’s just me and Peeta. I glance at him, and we both pause as we make our way down the hall. We stop outside the doorway, a guard holding his earpiece before halting us with a sharp shake of his head.

Peeta leans in, breathing softly against my ear. “Together?”

As he leans back, I try to keep myself from doing something ridiculous, like crying. Peeta, my Boy with the Bread, the boy who continues to save my life over and over again. My partner.

He’ll be my husband by this time tomorrow. And, then… 

“Together,” I confirm with a nod. 

The President’s private detail opens the doors, motioning for us to enter. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Mellark.” The President’s voice carries, decidedly friendly despite the lack of say we have on the matter. “Welcome back.”

The slight, though not a deep one, hits me at the thought of Peeta’s mother. I’m not Katniss Everdeen. I’m just Mrs. Mellark, or will be. As we approach the desk, the odor of roses and blood hits me; as always, in the President’s presence. They are planted in a vase at the corner of his desk, and another pure, white rose is clipped to President Snow’s lapel. 

“Please, be seated.”

We obey. The chairs here are much like the straight-backed, carved wooden chairs in my home office. Made for someone taller than me. The heels of my feet, due to the pointed stilettos just barely touch the ground. My eyes are drawn up to the massive Presidential seal, installed just above Snow’s head. The President takes a seat himself, folding his hands on the desk before him. I hear the doors click shut behind us. Through the glass windows at either side behind him, I can see the decorations being installed. Crews of men and women in Avox uniforms hang off of ladders, or coil flowers and lights about the pillars and greenery.

“So wonderful to have our favorite Victors back with us. And for such a joyous occasion.”

“Thank you for having us, sir,” Peeta replies.

The President smiles at Peeta, before turning to me. The too-wide smile mocks me, the penetrating gaze of his beady eyes making me want to shudder. 

“Tell me, Mrs. Mellark, are you excited to finally marry the love of your life?”

I don’t reply at first, the words stuck in the back of my throat. _Mrs. Mellark,_ another loss of identity. The Girl on Fire, the Star-Crossed Lover. Someone else’s property.

I maintain eye contact, before opening my lips. 

“Of course, sir.”

Snake-like eyes narrow slightly, before he leans back in his seat. His gaze flits between the two of us, and the strain of this overview causes my muscles to tighten in anticipation. My hand itches to reach out to Peeta, to gain comfort just from our partnership, our solidarity. But I don’t dare take my eyes off of Snow. Fear keeps me from making even the slightest move.

“I have a problem, my dears.”

The words make my grit my teeth. I recall the last time a discussion of the President’s ‘problems’ had led him to come to my home, to invade what little sanctuary I falsely felt I had gained. 

“Sir?” I keep my eyes trained on the man across from me, avoid looking at Peeta. 

“You see, you have both played your parts splendidly.” The President pauses, his eyes locked on mine. “So well, in fact, I can be assured that this particular ceremony will not be a means of… disruption.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Peeta interjects. I quickly look at him, trying to warn him without words to keep quiet. I can’t allow Snow to have any reason to target Peeta, not after everything we’ve been through.

“Yes.” The President retrieves a holo device, sliding it forward. “I assume you both are familiar with this device?”

We both nod, having seen them a handful of times, typically in the hands of Head Peacekeeper Thread. When he is reading out a sentence for a district criminal.

“Let me explain how tomorrow night will go, then.”

I stare in disbelief, my eyes widening, chest tightening as President Snow explains how the consummation of our wedding is expected to be completed tomorrow night. He explains how the  sponsors, who gladly assisted in our Victory, look forward to the continuation of our story. The continuation of the Mellark family line.

“After all,” he repeats the threat he made months ago. “We never have seen the child of not one but two Victors.”

Peeta and I both stare in disbelief, as the President leans back, smiling as he allows his words to sink in. 

We knew this, I tell myself. I look at Peeta, see his fists clenching. I think of the Victory Tour, when he had begun to smash lamps and other items. 

“We’ll do it, sir.”

The President raises a brow, and Peeta looks about ready to object. 

“We’ll consummate the marriage tomorrow night.”

“Of course.” The President taps the holo, before sliding it forward. “I trust you know how to record, as well as watch?"

 

* * *

 

 

The music swells, as the light turns to me. The crowd rises, delighted gasps as I begin to march forward. One step, two step… _you can do this,_ I tell myself. I think of Prim, I think of my mother. I think of Peeta’s brothers, of Delly and Madge and Gale and their families. 

_I can, I can, I can._ I repeat the mantra to myself, tell myself I must. It gets me down the aisle, gets me past the hands that reach out, brush across my arm and dress train.

I am at the base of the stairs, passing one step, two then three. Peeta’s hand reaches out, takes mine and holds it, tightly. A lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow properly, the lights from the camera all but blind me to everything except Peeta. The Justice is speaking, getting raucous laughter and applause, and the occasional whistle, but I don’t hear the words the man says. He’s some Justice of the Peace or some other baloney title, here in the Capitol, and afraid of panicking, I keep my eyes my fiancé. Soon to be my husband. The speeches go on and on, songs interspersing with professions of our devotion to one another. It seems to never end.

“Peeta Mellark, do you take Katniss Everdeen to be your lawful and wedded wife?” the Justice asks. “To love and to cherish, to honor and obey, from this day forward?”

“I do,” Peeta replies. His blue eyes are locked on mine, watery, as if he has been crying, or drinking. 

“Katniss Everdeen, do you take Peeta Mellark to be your lawful and wedded husband?” the Justice’s robes swish as he turns to me. “To love and to cherish, to honor and obey, from this day forward?”

I gulp heavily before speaking, forcing a smile. “I do.”

“Are there any reasons, to why these two should not be wed?” The Justice asks. A chorus of, ‘Let them kiss!’ breaks out from the audience. I force a laugh, and even Peeta’s smile looks strained. “By the power vested in me, I declare you Mr. and Mrs. Peeta Mellark, husband and wife. Let nothing break the bond which love has made.”

And with that, we seal our fate. 

“You may kiss the bride!”

I try to make my tears recede, or at the least, to make them look of genuine happiness. Applause erupt from the oblivious audience. The only relief is when Peeta’s lips meet mine, and his arms hold me, tightly, as all of the lights and cameras flicker off.

The reception passes in a blur. My eyes sting as I try to hold myself together, smile and be gracious. The car ride to the prearranged hotel provides nothing but tension, as pedestrians stop the car, tap on the windows, demand we kiss for them. 

My lips feel numb from Peeta’s kisses, not for his pressure but the incessant demand they be passionate. When the doors finally close, I collapse against the back wall of the hotel elevator. His hands find my own, and he leads me through the penthouse. It’s larger than the one in the training center, and snacks and drinks line all of the tables, little notes about marriage popped in here and there. Bouquets of white roses fill the spaces where platters of food are missing, and I grimace, trying to ignore them. Peeta pauses, for a moment, before pointing to the liquor cabinet. Feeling too tired, and too close to tears, I simply look away. 

“I think it’ll help.” He studies me carefully.

I shrug, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment before walking towards our room.

Peeta gathers all the bottles that he can carry before following me.

“Mrs. Mellark?” he asks, softly. He holds out a bottle of some amber-colored whiskey. “Do you take this bottle?”

A small smile finds its way to my lips, and I take the bottle, unscrewing the cap as Peeta pops opened a bottle of his own. 

We clink the bottles against one another, before setting the holo device on the bedside table.


	2. After-care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After-care between Katniss and Peeta.
> 
> (PLEASE NOTE A MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING- this is a sensitive subject, and may not be appropriate for anyone who has sensitivities to mentions of rape / sexual coercion. Please, please, do not read forward if this is a subject that you want to avoid, or which will trigger you in any capacity.)

****Peeta’s chest rises and falls. It lends a slow, steady stream of comfort.

His apologies ring in my ears, the look on his face as he leans down, kissing me before his heat penetrates. The way he bit down on his lower lip, eyes dilating. The image permeates my memory. How vulnerable Peeta is— how vulnerable we _both_ are, under the surveillance of the president’s recording device. It made any reaction that even slightly betrayed our truth borderline criminal. Fragile contours of our bodies press to one another, barely anything to protect from the threats that can end everything at a moment’s notice.

Snow could just as easily have his men drag us both into the street and plant bullets in us. That would be wasteful, though. This— this sick blend of affection and fear for my own _husband—_ this solves the president’s problem with far less personal sacrifice on his own behalf. His comment before the Victory Tour, about Peeta’s reaction to my indifference, had been more than petty commentary. It was a dig, at the two of us. It was seeking out between the Star-Crossed Lovers, who is the weaker link. Who is more responsible for this, for the sign of rebellion that the berries have become. How he can unite us in theory yet divide us by his own means. Inject us with his venom, but keep us alive enough to serve a purpose.

Stuffing us and getting us drunk and parading us around, spoiling us while the districts suffer. We had lamb stew as a parting meal, while half the people in the Seam had been made homeless. What will Gale say?

At the least the alcohol had taken away some of the discomfort, dizzying and numbing and distancing us both from the reality of it all. We could almost pretend it was our decision. Almost. I wonder if Snow, when he views it, will find it more convincing or less than the wedding itself.

Haymitch should be proud. Perhaps they had planted so much in the penthouse to encourage us to get drunk. Then Panem will get a triplet set of drunks. Perhaps they’ll say our child being reaped is a liberation, not a death sentence.

Soft breaths hush against the pillowcase between us, Peeta’s lips hanging opened. Avoiding looking at the holo on the night-table behind him, I lie still, fingers curling around the silken sheets, gripping them tightly. Peeta turned it off shortly after we had completed the act, apologizing something like a thousand times, before I told him to stop. I fell asleep with his hand running through my hair.

He looks peaceful, the most relaxed I have seen him in weeks. My lipstick has left stains on his cheeks, apple red and glinting in the prickles of sunlight from the horizon. Peeta’s own bronzer has rubbed off, too, marring the white bedcovers we had slipped under last night.

A frown puckers Peeta’s brow in his sleep. My hand reaches out hesitantly, to brush back a blonde curl. His eyelashes flutter in his sleep, a murmur like my name giving me pause, sending the thrill that feels so wrong, and yet so soothing. Immediately, I roll over, facing away from him. Lips purse. The tears that linger on the edge of my lids wait on tenterhooks, as if I’ll give them permission to appear.

My gaze sets on the window a few feet away, which surveys the Capitol’s cityscape. A tiny slice of the sky turns golden-orange, the buildings silhouetted in black as if biting a chunk out of the slowly-changing sunrise. I try not to blink, encouraging the weariness to take over. Eyes slip shut after some time. Darkness swallows me whole.

* * *

_The wind should be blustering. The crowds should be angry, should shout and spit and jeer aloud. These things we would expect. Instead, it’s a calm day with blue skies. Spots of grey clouds drift lazily above us. Snowcapped mountain peaks peer out in the distance. My eyes take in District Two’s massive square, the seemingly plastered smiles and hollow applause. It’s a different kind of hate, here. They’re Careers. They’re equipped for pretense._

_If not for us, Cato and Clove might have returned home. The hate is unlike what we witnessed in 8, or even in 4 and 3. They want to press forward, I can see it in all of their eyes, but unlike in other Districts, they keep themselves restrained. They stop short of cursing us, or harming us. Their anger is with our victory. It’s not the same fire which burns through most of the country._

_The banners are brighter here. Buildings brag a seemingly endless number of pennants, I’m sure the names of all their victors over the years. What captures my eye, makes me stop, are the large screens mounted across the square. Cato and Clove stare out at us. My hand tightens around Peeta’s. He retrieves Effie’s cards, reads them obediently. He steps back, prompts my own words. I am stuck, eyes locked on the sight across the square. Despite myself I look at Cato’s family. Three blonde-haired, blue-eyed relatives. Two little girls, and an older woman. The girls are perhaps a year or so younger than my own sister. No father, just a mother. They resemble my own family, but stare back coldly._

_I feel as if I have been kicked in the gut. I clear my throat, do the best to put on a smile, to read Effie’s words aloud. I hear a murmur in the crowd, see the crowd parting ways. Suddenly, a high-pitched scream. The Peacekeepers shift, but not before I see a man rush them, a pistol in his hand that rings out three shots. A pull to my weight._

_Peeta slumps to the cobblestone._

_“No!” I yell, dropping to my knees. A volley sounds out, more shots. I shield him with my body as best I can. The gunshots dissipate. I grab Peeta’s face in my shaking hands. “Peeta?”_

_No response. Silence. His eyes are shut. The blood oozes out from his stomach and shoulder, head with a graze that pours down his brow. I tap his cheek, his blonde lashes failing to flutter. I repeat his name, voice pitching with fear._

_“Open your eyes, Peeta.”_

_The scent of gunpowder lingers, his blood pooling on my hands as I try to press against the wounds. His chest is still._

_“Peeta, open your eyes! Please-- please.” My fingers fumble across his lips. The slightest of hot breath. Alive, but just barely. I jerk my head up, a pair of Peacekeepers approaching us. “Help him!”_

_They approach, but one hooks his arms around me, and begins to drag me backwards--_

I wake up screaming his name. I'm thrashing in the sheets, only stopping when a warm pair of arms engulfs me, a soft voice whispering words of comfort.

_Peeta._

My body flinches.

_Peeta was dying._

I shake my head. "You're-- you were shot-"

“I'm okay," he says, pulling me close. “I’m fine.”

I bury my face in his chest, the tears escaping down my cheeks and onto his skin. His bare skin. The cool metal of his prosthetic leg touches my toes.

He's naked.

Of course he is.

Because we’ve had sex.

“Remember, Katniss?” he asks gently.

I do remember.

We're both naked, his flesh warm, flushed. My eyes seek out the raised, white scar in his shoulder, spidery lines repairing where the bullet had been removed.

_We just--_

"It's all right," he murmurs, oblivious to my realization. His hand smoothes across the skin of my back, free hand coming to rest at the base of my neck. "It was just a nightmare."

But I pull away, untangle myself from his limbs, and scramble from the bed. I grab the pashmina throw from the foot of the bed, wrap it around myself before retreating to the bathroom. Peeta calls out, his heavy footsteps labored in trying to catch up with me. The lock shuts without with a resounding click behind me. His knuckles rap the wood several times, before he seems to give up. Sitting on the toilet, my head drops into my hands, eyes squeezing shut. Haymitch’s voice fights its way into an avalanche of thoughts.

 

 

 

> _“And every year they’ll revisit the romance and broadcast the details of your private life, and you’ll never, ever be able to do anything but live happily ever after with that boy.”_ ******

Muscles in my stomach clench as my arms wrap around myself. I can taste last night’s whiskey on my tongue still, and purposely spit into the toilet basin a few times to rid myself of it. Moving to the sink to wash my hands, my own reflection startles me. There are hooded black smudges underneath and above my eyes. The rouge applied by the prep team has strayed, making it look as if I’ve been slapped down to the underside of my chin. The lipstick is virtually gone, my lips chapped and dry. Lingering remnants ring my mouth, likely pushed about as we locked lips.

There is a large, purple mark on my collarbone. I vaguely remember Peeta pressing his lips hard to the skin there, sucking on it. The moan that escaped my lips. The warmth that had flowed through me even now makes me clench my legs. I think of all our kisses, of how each was us seeking one another, the comfort that struck me, the way a fire burned between us. This yearning, this hunger had returned; the flicker of a spark, but I push it away, reject it outright. We didn’t do this because of us.

We did it so President Snow can have a video of us obeying his orders.

The heat of the alcohol had muddled me enough to confuse me. The kisses wouldn’t have had this sort of effect, if not for the haze of the drinks.

I blink quickly, before I do something stupid, like let myself begin to sob.

Peeta. The boy with the bread.

 _It’s not his fault,_ I tell myself. It isn’t.

But it was his face, his tongue, his hands…

Looking down at myself, I hesitate before gingerly placing a hand on my inner thigh. It’s dry, but the mess of last night plagues me. Invisible grime and dried sweat cling to me. My legs are sore, I notice the more I stand here, and each moment that passes I feel a new form of exhaustion making me shake uncontrollably.

I’m struggling to keep from playing it over, and over. Sharp breaths come all at once, sending me back in time, the way seeing Prim in Cinna’s designs brought Rue back to my mind with frightening realism.

It’s hard to breathe. Impossible.

I see his face as he groaned out, as the slick release accompanied it. I bite my tongue between my molars.

_Peeta smiling at me in the schoolyard; in the rain, tossing me the bread; taking my dandelion. Peeta at the river, whispering my name in relief. Peeta holding me tightly, in the District Two hospital ward._

I can’t count the things he’s done for me, on one hand. I need to keep a list, though. I need to start. A list of all the good deeds he has done. A list to reassure myself that never, never would he hurt me this way.

A stinging throb appears between my things, aching, making it difficult to ignore.

Snow’s venom is sinking in. I can feel it, potent and vicious and slowly paralyzing me.

He’s winning. I can’t even say it _wasn’t_ Peeta who caused me this pain, just that he was doing it under threat.

My hands brace the counter, head ducking before the urge to vomit gets the better of me. I focus on the tile of the sink and begin to count each tiny, honey-brown square. After a time, when my breath is more steady, I straighten, avoiding the grey of my own eyes looking back at me.

Whiskey haunts the back of my tongue.

I rummage through the drawers for a mouth-rinse, practically chugging the minty green liquid before swishing it around. Spitting and wiping my chin with the back of my hand, I see in a drawer a small basket labeled ‘aftercare package,’ filled with gels and lotions. At the bottom sits an innocuous little pack of pink pills, dates on them which include this morning. Lifting the pack from its resting place, I flip it over and study the instructions. I have to read the words several times before I understand that this is a pill to prevent pregnancy.

Prevent.

Only Snow wants us to have a child.

Or was that a bluff?

_Or are the pills a bluff?_

I drop the pills down, glancing over the rest of the items and their guidelines. One of the gels is to be applied ‘ _post-coitally, following vigorous sterilization.’_ At that, my mother’s words come to me. She murmured advice about washing thoroughly, about being certain to relieve myself, to avoid infections. I had pulled away from her, tried to ignore her words, stupidly thinking somehow that having sex could be put off. I thought, at the earliest, eighteen would be the expected age. She knew better.

That shortness of breath creeps along the perimeters of my mind. Bare feet slap chilled tiles, trembling fingers smashing buttons randomly. Thick pinkish-purple bubbles emerge from two different faucets, steaming hot water from the third. The aroma of crushed lavender hits me as I step in, accompanied by a second scent, sweet, powdery and utterly foreign. I lean my neck back, wincing as the hot water pounds the bruised blemish on my collarbone. My hands soothe smooth circles about the spot, slow and careful to move from there to my head. Fingernails scrape at my scalp, scrubbing my hair out. Letting the hot water run down my back, I build up the courage to dare another glance in the direction of my pelvis, still aching. The anger swells, but is drowned by the sob that builds in the back of my throat, quickly swallowed into my palm.

Minutes tick by, before I take a sponge hanging from the nozzle, soaking it in the foamy spray. Touching a hand to the wall, half-afraid I might fall, I run the sponge along my skin, starting at the shoulders and working my way down. The soap leaves behind a trail, the water cleansing some parts quicker than others. The froth slides down one leg, and then the other. I am at my hip, when I pause, reaching my free hand to the wall for balance, and slowly slide the sponge down, between my legs. My eyes burn, another cry bitten off as teeth plunge into my lower lip, hand pressing the sponge up, slowly massaging at the spot. I pull it away, tossing the sponge aside and hunching my shoulders up, trying to hold myself together. Eyes squeeze shut. The water drowns me, gently, as I inhale the steam then exhale slowly.

Peeta is my ally.

_Peeta with the berries; on the train; bringing me cheese-buns. Peeta painting Rue on a small canvas, white flowers covering her body. Peeta holding me tighter than he needed to at our wedding._

I can’t tell if there are water droplets from my own tears, or from the shower head, but I stand and let my body shudder under the drizzle for some time, before I feel drained enough to call it calmness.

 _We’re in this together,_ I tell myself. _But we don’t_ **_own_ ** _each other._

Snow doesn’t own me. I mouth the words, knowing better than to say them aloud, even here.

 _I am Katniss Everdeen. They called me the Girl on Fire. I am seventeen years old. Peeta Mellark and I were forced to marry. We won the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. Snow does_ **_not_ ** _own us._

The thought of Peeta, who I ran away from moments ago, fills me with dread. I don’t dread him, but dread what the next step is. And the next, after that.

Bracing myself for an onslaught of conscience, I program the blow-dry system that warms me and rapidly evaporates the water from my skin. I wrap a soft bathrobe around myself, pressing my nose to the vanilla-scented cloth and hugging it tightly around myself.

I take a deep breath, before unlocking the door and hesitantly stepping out into the bedroom.

I find a disaster zone. A bedside ashtray has been smashed in its place on the nightstand, the footstool at the end thrown across the room and lying in bits and pieces.

_Oh, Peeta._

My eyes search for the holo, and I find it undamaged on a cabinet in the corner of the room. He tore the room apart, but not the recording.

“Peeta?” I call out, careful to avoid any shards that might have sprayed out from the glass tray’s destruction.

I hear the clinking of utensils from outside of the bedroom, and distinctive buzzing of a television program playing. Hurrying towards the sounds, I see him sitting at the dining room table, a bountiful feast in all shapes, sizes and colors laid out before him. His hair is combed back, and I can tell from the wet sheen of it that he has showered, himself. There are dark circles under his eyes, a bruise just beginning on his knuckles. He doesn’t look up, even as I come and sit next to him. My stomach feels almost ill at the sight of all this food, though I spot lemon scones and cheesy-potatoes among the spoils and take a few onto my plate. The rest, I do not recognize. I don’t think I could eat much more without wanting to retch.

Peeta holds out a cup of hot chocolate.

“Thank you,” I offer.

“You’re welcome.” Peeta’s blue eyes do not meet mine, instead focusing on his meal.

Similarly, my food receives my full attention. I finish my helping quicker than I expect, and scoop more out. We don’t say anything to one another, words hardly able to mend the damage done here. It is impossible to get home sooner than Snow sees fit, and when home, impossible to leave this behind us. No forgetting, no ignoring it.

The background noise runs a news program, gossiping about the Star-Crossed Lovers’ first night together. Peeta Mellark, according to them, has planned the most romantic getaway, upon which we will be departing by noon today. I pause, glancing at Peeta. He is frowning at the television, looking as confused as me.

“A honeymoon.” Peeta’s jaw clenches, still not meeting my gaze before he throws down his knife and fork in frustration. “We’re getting a honeymoon.”

I don’t know what to say to that, but I find my fingers gripping my fork tighter.

An Avox appears, holding out a silver tray with a small, white envelope on it. Within the package are two tickets, a train ride from the Capitol to District Four.

_“A romantic, three-day getaway to the West Beach Resort.”_

It further holds a congratulatory message, signed by President Snow himself.

I feel the fury in me, but quell it, and swallow down the words that threaten to spill out. Blue eyes finally look at me, anger written all over his face. I reach out and place my hand on his.

“Together,” I murmur.

His fingers squeeze my hand in response, before he leans forward, pausing and giving me the option of meeting him in the middle. Is it because he needs the comfort of a kiss, or a determination to continue playing our parts? Would he even know, if I asked? After a hesitation, I lean over to peck his cheek.

The elevator rings out, and the chorus of our prep team makes us pull far apart from one another.

It isn’t until they’ve swarmed us, hugging and kissing us, that I see Effie has a clipboard.

I realize the ‘getaway’ will be anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you THANK YOU to GreenWool and Lovethybooty, you are both soso awesome and I can't thank you enough for your support and your kindness and generosity (and for letting me bug you!!) <3  
> **blockquote is direct from Catching Fire Chapter Three.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Train-ride to an unwanted honeymoon.

Doctor, fans, smiling, train.

My thumb rolls the golden wedding band in circles about my ring-finger. I sit with my head against the chilled glass window. It’ll be sunset soon, the clouds gathering with a hazy evening drizzle. The moon is nearly visible, half-cut like a lemon slice. The landscape’s wilds pass by in a blur. 

Despite the supposed proximity, compared to Twelve, District Four seems to be as far from the Capitol as anywhere else. We’ve come through two different train junctions, both in the middle of nowhere. Each time, I’ve wondered which District the alternating line would lead to, which one would take us back to Twelve. I’d never figure it out.

Effie passes a copy of our itinerary to me, yammering with only occasional words sinking in. West Beach Resort. District Four. Swimming lessons. A ride on a ‘yacht.’ A ‘scuba’ dive. Promotions. 

_ Home.  _

Peeta slides me a roll. I tear bits off, eat them to have something to do. 

Three more days of this. 

Home can’t come too soon.

Peeta’s hand rests on my shoulder, causing me to flinch.

“Sorry.” He pulls away.

I glance at him, finishing off my roll without a word. None of this is his fault, but I can’t find the right way to respond, and he doesn’t push me. We don’t have the cameras on. I can show discomfort if I want. I can be taciturn all along.

After finishing, I slide out of the dining car without a word. I’m grateful that Peeta doesn’t follow, though before I get a chance to shut the car door someone else calls out my name. 

_ Cinna.  _

I give what I hope passes for a slight smile, and he pulls something from behind his back. The basket from the hotel’s bathroom. I stare, before frowning. 

“The hotel wanted you to have it,” he comments, placing it on top of the car’s dresser. “Complimentary. They’re going to get a lot of reservations, with you two having stayed there.”

“Thank you,” I reply. My voice cracks. I realize I haven’t spoken a word since we left the Capitol, hours ago. 

“Peeta wanted to know if the chef should make some lamb stew,” Cinna continues. “If you’re hungry for real food, and not just rolls?”

I give an indifferent shrug, moving towards the door.

A hand touches my wrist, keeping me in my room as the train gently pitches left before righting itself. Cinna’s painted nails hold orange-and-yellow flame flourishes, similar to my dress for the Interviews what seems like ages ago. Carefully, as if afraid of frightening me off, he retrieves something from the bottom of the basket. The pink packet of pills. Prevention pills, silver-paper directions glued to the front of the package. It’s only in disbelief that I finally tear my eyes away, to look at him. 

My mouth opens, but he puts a finger across his lips and I swallow the words off the tip of my tongue.

“Have a glass of water, before bed,” Cinna says easily, as if discussing the weather; “You seem a little dehydrated.”

_ Thank you, _ I mouth, pushing away thoughts of what risks he is taking in giving me these. Was he the one who placed them in our hotel room’s cabinet? Cinna and Effie both know that this is a pretense. But, if he’s giving me this… does he know more?

“Get some rest, Katniss.” Cinna’s arms wrap around me, and I press my face against his shoulder, trying to find the right way to repay him. If only I knew how. “I’ll tell Peeta you’re tired.”

He pulls away. I’m left in too-quiet train-car with my Mockingjay pin, the pills, and a head filled with unanswered questions.

I drown the first pill down my throat with a full glass of water, but sleep doesn’t come. 

Instead, I whittle away time by the windows, watching the horizon gobble up the sun. Memories of the last train ride home burn fresh in my mind. Peeta held me, as I cried for the two nineteen-year-olds we lost. Mattie and Sib, both on athletic teams at school, both from Merchant families. Mattie’s wild curls. Freckles dusting Sib’s nose. Slaughtered by allies Peeta and I had wrangled for them, worked hard to flesh out. 

Enobaria, the District Two mentor, laughed while they were being killed. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if this will rid me of the visual. I lay on my side on the plush mattress, slipping under the sheets. 

The door to the room opens. From the heavy footfalls, it is Peeta, but I don’t look up from my place on the bed. The window creaks as it is slid opened, the squeaks of metal train against metal track becoming more distinct. Fresh breezes blow the stuffiness from the room. He lays down next to me, trying to shift the sheets as little as possible. When he is still, I roll onto my back after a few minutes to look up at him. His head is leaned back, against the headboard, one arm behind his neck. His wedding ring clacks against the bedpost dully. His lashes bat with long, tired blinks. I slide my fingers into his free hand, grateful as he gives me a reassuring squeeze. How I want to curl myself around him, fall asleep with my head against his chest.

_ Only…  _

Both of us lie still, his thumb soothing circles against my skin. 

He drifts, after a few minutes. He twitches awake, eyes fluttering rapidly, catches me staring and gazes back. His eyes are glazed with wearied confusion. I reach up and brush his curls from his lashes. The touch is tentative, but his eyelids slide shut. As he relaxes, a funny pout puckers his lips, in his sleep.

_ “Stay with me?”  _ I had asked him once.

His posture slumps, arm and head sliding down to rest against the pillow next to me. 

He had promised,  _ “Always.” _

I picture the benign pink circle lolling about, back and forth inside my stomach. How will I tell him I took pills to prevent what Snow wants? Peeta can’t want it, not like this. He wants it to be real. 

Cecilia comes to mind, the Victor from Eight whose eldest son only escaped being Reaped this year because of the rule change. But next year, or the year after, he could be thrown in. He isn’t even the child of two Victors.

Cecilia hasn’t even challenged Snow. 

District Eight hasn’t been behaving, though.

I picture Peeta holding a baby with blonde curls but grey, Seam eyes. I picture the baby being ripped from his arms, placed on a steel metal plate which rises into the arena as we watch helplessly.

I gulp, curling the blankets around me, tightening my hold on his hand. He doesn’t stir. 

Selfishly, I almost want him to. 

* * *

_ We are in the hallway leading to the President’s meeting room. The echoes of the announcement reverberate in my head. _

_ “This year, as a reminder that even the strongest among you must be made to atone and to serve, the most recent Victor from each District shall hand-select the male and female Tribute, from a pool of nineteen-year-old citizens.” _

_ A plush wine carpet muffles our steps, as we enter a narrower corridor. Black-suited guards posted halfway down are indifferent as we pass. Peeta attempts a thank you, but the words linger in the dead air, sentiments unreturned. They don’t check us for weapons, or even eye us with suspicion. It’s as if we don’t exist. _

_ Statues of youthful figures line this hall. Some bear weapons, others are hidden among carved bushes or rocks. Small, golden placards sit on the base of each, but we don’t pause to read their inscriptions. Powder-white stone depicts carved jackets and trousers on some figures, with as much detail as it does the nude forms of others. I avert my gaze. Cheeks burn at several statues in a row bearing breasts or phalluses. I half-expect Peeta to laugh at me; he’d called me ‘pure,’ earlier, when Johanna Mason had stripped in the elevator in front of us and Haymitch. But his jaw is tightly clenched, forward stare stony. I don’t know if I am more relieved or concerned.  _

_ The corridor ends into ebony double-doors. Two more guards, nearly identical to the others we have passed, stand abutting the closed entry. As we approach them, I feel my lungs inflate sharply into a gasp as I catch sight of the final sculpture on our left. _

_ A young girl and boy, each with a handful of berries so delicately rendered that they appear about to roll out of their grasp. The girl wears her hair in a side-braid, the boy’s hair full of curls. A hard, stony stare rests on the girl’s face, the boy’s eyes wide. Both lips are partially opened, counting to three between the two of us.  _

_ This is the final moment, when we threw the Capitol’s Games back in Snow’s face.  _

_ I glance back over my shoulder, at the statue just next to ours which I had overlooked. A triumphant boy holds a rock to the air. Parry, the District Eleven victor who won the year before Peeta and me. To his left is a barely-clothed Wade from District Two. _

_ The statues we have glanced over must all be of Victors. We are all immortalized in stone, for the President’s personal viewing. _

_ “Impressive,” Peeta comments sharply.  _

_ “What is?” I ask, turning back to our statue. _

_ We are stripped and chained to the stone. Heavy metal chain drags me towards the stone slab-- _

I wake up screaming, managing to quiet myself against Peeta’s chest. Barely ten minutes pass before Effie bursts through the door. 

The train has stopped moving. 

“Welcome to District Four!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there, thank you for bearing with me. I know it's been a while, and I apologize profusely but well, life has a way of getting in your way, doesn't it? hopefully this isn't disappointing, I know this is a bit on the short end. any comments/crit./etc. are super-appreciated!  
> major thanks to GreenWool and Lovethybooty yet again, for letting me ramble and for checking me over, you guys seriously are the best (and everyone should read their works, they're both brilliant). <3 <3 <3


	4. Chapter 4

The platform at District Four’s train station is a tight squeeze between me and Peeta, never mind Effie and Cinna directly behind. And then, there is the mayor.

District Four’s mayor looks as if he’s eaten some of his citizens.

The man’s lips are thicker, even, than some of the women in the Capitol. His belly barely tucks into his too-tight suit. I look at some of the other citizens who are part of the welcoming committee, and the rest look normal-sized— healthier than in the Seam, perhaps, but nowhere near as overstuffed as the Mayor. He looks inflated, cheeks puffy, and sagging his lips lost in the fat of his cheeks and triple-chin. His breathing is labored, as if having to speak at the same time as standing is too much. Watery brown eyes make me think some of Haymitch, and I wonder if the mayor drinks himself into a stupor daily, too.

This man hadn’t been mayor the last time we were here.

Is the other one dead?

“Mr. and Mrs. Mellark,” his voice is slightly nasal, despite such a solid appearance. “We are honored to have you as guests in our District once again.”

The mayor takes my hand to press a kiss to it, his touch clammy and limp. I quickly pull away when he lets go, glad to tuck my arm into Peeta’s.

Two cars separate the District Four welcoming committee from Peeta and me, the ride from Four’s train station to their central plaza seeming longer than it had during our Victory Tour. Effie comments on several new ‘renovations’ that she sees along the way. I notice it, too. A handful of boarded-up buildings, showing visible signs of fire. Some foundations for buildings bear rubble within, as if they have already been demolished.

“Guess Four’s been celebrating,” Peeta comments, dripping sarcasm.

Cinna clears his throat.

“Oh, I’m sure they simply couldn’t wait to have you both here!” Effie exclaims. “But surely, the mayor could have taken us along a more pleasant road, I mean really. The view leaves something to be desired.”

She has a point. The last time we had been in Four, the car drove along a path that hugged the coastline.

As the car bumps over uneven cobblestone, I make out a half-circle on one of the charred remnants. The tip of an arrow and half of a wing are still visible, the rest blackened.

A mockingjay.

Craning my neck, I look out the back window as the car continues on. Faces appear in the windows and doorways of derelict houses in our wake. Wide-eyed, soot-covered people in mussed clothing peek and stagger out in the direction of our motorcade.

I would guess there are no other roads that could be taken. Maybe the entire district looks like this, burnt and torn apart.

Peeta’s blue eyes meet my own, a furrow in his brow before he shakes his head. He must see it, too.

We haven’t quieted anything, not here.

The peacekeepers, following our cars on foot, shoo people back inside their homes.

A pop startles me, from inside the cab. Cinna has opened a bottle of a white, fizzy liquid, frothing over the cap onto the soft interior.

“Champagne,” he clarifies. He holds out a some for me, before pouring Peeta and Effie some as well. When everyone has been served, Cinna raises his cup, giving me a small smile. “To Katniss and Peeta.”

Effie repeats the words, Peeta putting the glass to the side after raising the toast. I follow suit, vaguely remembering the unpleasant taste, of all things, from our reception.

“Come, at least have a sip!” Effie insists.

We do, before putting our glasses to the side. Effie seems disappointed at our lack of enthusiasm, and corks the bottle, before finishing off her drink. We pass through a series of seeming alleys and cut-throughs, maze-like and narrow, before the car clears wider streets, ending into a large plaza at the center of town. This section, at least, appears the same as before.

Pens keep a crowd at the center of the court, brightly colored clothing fluttering in the breeze. As the door opens, a tang to the air gusting in reminds me of our last trip, scent of fish and salt carrying on the breezes. The water glitters from behind the crowd, the stage facing the horizon as ships dance along it. Out in the distance, boats sail offshore. Down to the south, beyond what the cameras film, we can see people on the docks, seeming to work as usual.

Peeta helps me from the car, and a camera flickers to life nearby. My smile in place, we wave to the crowd before following the mayor.

We are led to the same stage which had greeted us on our Victory Tour, the decoration more subdued, now. Off-white decorations line a third of the courtyard and pens. The crowd today is smaller than the last celebratory occasion. Helmeted Peacekeepers are posted on the rooftops of buildings which line the square. Large weapons, poised to take out anyone in the crowd who acts out.

They can’t risk someone trying to assassinate us, again.

Peeta wraps an arm around my waist.

“Effie’s given me some cards,” he whispers in my ear. His hot breath tickles my ear and I send him a smile, gratitude and guilt mixing in the pit of my stomach until I have to look away from him.

Welcome.

The back of a strikingly tall young girl, with dirty-blonde hair, speaks with a heavy District Four twang. She is this year’s Victor, the winner of the Third Quarter Quell. She is easily around the same height as Gale— if not taller. The girl turns, hazel-green eyes sparkling as she smiles brilliantly.

Tomie Moray.

She looks different when she isn’t camouflaged with mud, or covered in blood.

She looks different when she isn’t ending Mattie’s life.

Tomie was still part of the Career Pack, same as Mattie and Sib, when the girl from One and boy from Two betrayed us. The five of them were on a mission to track down fresh water in the dome-like Arena, the clockwork sections of the forest proving to be one horror after another. They had gone counter-clockwise, all evading the jabberjays, except Tomie. She was caught in the forcefield, screaming on the ground, covering her ears. Mattie and Sib wanted to wait it out for her. The two were watching for a sign that the forcefield would drop. Distracted. Guard down. Sib never stood a chance. Two’s sword went right through his heart. His canon went off immediately. The girl from one kept Mattie from running, then. Mattie, though, Mattie fought. The hatchet that hit her head didn’t kill her on impact, nor did the other blows she received. District Two nearly quartered her.

The Careers left Tomie and Mattie both for dead, headed back to the Cornucopia where the others in the Pack were waiting. Tomie was shaken enough not to stand at first, stumbled to where she had seen the others go. Mattie was left whimpering, paralyzed in a pool of her own blood. Writhing. In pain. I yelled at Haymitch to help her. He couldn’t— wouldn’t. It won’t do her any good, he said.

Five minutes, then fifteen. Haymitch and Peeta stopped me from going to the Concourse, stopped me from trying to send the dying girl something, anything.

Eighteen minutes had passed. Tomie was petting Mattie’s hair. Her breaths were shallow. We thought of Rue. Peeta and I both wept. Tomie Moray slit the wounded girl’s throat.

Peeta’s hand slides up my back, gripping my shoulder. When our eyes meet, I can see he is haunted, too, by the girl speaking.

Tomie makes a motion toward stage right, and a little girl in a lovely white dress appears, smiling too brightly at Peeta and me. The girl holds up a wooden box, with the crest of the Capitol carved in it.

Applause.

“Thank you,” I murmur, reaching and taking the box from her. Peeta takes the top from me, and we find a soft, woven parcel neatly folded inside.

The girl gives a gap-toothed smile. A pain of familiarity strikes me, as I recognize the awe and admiration.

“One day, I’ll volunteer, just like you!”

A trickle of sweat beads down my back, a shudder that I struggle to contain. Slickness of the makeup pounded on perspiring flesh urges me to scratch at my face. Instead, I run my fingers along silken coils, an intricate pattern, alternating stars and a number ’12.’ A wedding net, the blonde girl explains to the audience. District Four tradition.

“Couples from our district weave the wedding net together, a sign of unity, much like the unity that our nation’s Star-Crossed Lovers have come to remind us of. Thanks to the Capitol’s generosity, we can all live in harmony.”

There is more. I don’t want to listen. Tomie’s back is to us, but I can see blood appear and disappear on her hands, and a queasy feeling makes me gulp for air. I clutch the fabric tighter, soothing myself with its texture.

My cheeks are stretched to break.

He is watching us, I know. He is watching the both of us.

He probably instructed for Tomie to make this speech.

Relief fills me when she finally finishes. The speeches still carry on, the frog-like mayor’s garbled speech heavily accented, and made even less distinct by the speakers.

Another cheer, before everyone turns to us.

Silent prompting.

Peeta steps up to the microphone, thanks the District for their warm reception. When he is done, more clapping, more forced smiles as he turns back to me, comes towards me.

One step closer, then two, then three, and I steel myself with the box between us.

Smile peels apart my lips, so teeth show, a hot hand pressing damp fabric against my lower back. I tilt my chin up as he leans down. I wrap the net around the back of his neck, before pressing my lips to his.

Silence.

A soft insistence cuts through me, lets a suppressed stirring bubble up inside. The way his hand trails up to the back of my neck, my skin pebbles so that I could shiver even in the heat. I can almost pretend it’s just us, just me and my boy with the bread.

I pretend he smells of cinnamon, and flour, instead of perfumes and product.

That this is all we need to do.

Just one more kiss, just one more speech.

Only…

Our lips pull apart, a slight snap. I nearly lean back in a second time. Recovering myself, a hand slides down, to rest against his chest, just above where I know the bullet scars hide. My head against his cheek, I see down the side of his neck a small trail of perspiration.

The air is damp, and hot. A breeze is welcomed, only just as warm as stagnant air, it quickly dies down.

But I’m not letting go of him.

My brain churns out determination.

I won’t, I won’t.

Applause, applause.

Peeta’s hand feels clammy, unnaturally so, and as we head down from the stage, he stumbles on the stairs. Reaching out, I try to help steady him. He pulls at the tie around his neck, his cheeks ruddy, sweat on his brow.

“Are you okay?” I ask, a tremor refusing to stay out of my voice.

Peeta gives a stiff nod, but I keep an arm around him, feel how hot he is even through his suit’s jacket. As soon as we enter the car, I practically rip his blazer from him, sweat dying the fabric of his shirt underneath a dark blue.

I reach across to where an ice-box rests, and gather some ice in a cloth napkin. Holding it to the back of his neck, I keep a steadying hand on his shoulder, watching the apple in his throat bob slightly.

“I’m okay,” he says softly.

He’s okay. Peeta’s fine.

It’s not very convincing. I nod all the same.

He’s fine, for now.

A drop of sweat peeks out along his temple I gently smooth it away with my thumb. I don’t expect him to flinch, or quickly pull back. His eyes lock with mine, a shy smile as he looks away, rests his hand on my thigh. The grime I tried valiantly to wash away scuttles across me now, and I shift away so that his hand is off of me.

“Ehem!” Effie interjects, and we both jump. “Now, for the resort!”

* * *

A bounty has been laid out on a grand, outdoor patio. A bar with an impressive array of liquor, being silently served out by Avoxes, overlooks waves crashing against the shore. Placing myself between the edge of the patio and the long serving table, I can inspect the massive array of plates prepared for consumption. It seems to be foods with District Four fare.

No District Twelve bread for a Toasting.

The route taken by the automobile had slinked here, similarly to our arrival, until the narrow buildings were out of sight, opening up to shady trees, the Town obscured by a road through seeming wilderness. Grimy, motionless water lined the road, layers of greenish growth floating atop the reflective pools. Strange mutt-like creatures— Gators, I think— fled at the sound and motion of the car. As we looked back they had crawled their scaly, short legs back to sun themselves in the center of the road.

A shrill laugh from across the patio makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. A handful of Capitol citizens have been invited to the resort for the weekend, and something in me is hardly surprised to see it is one of these people caught in hysterics. Peeta has not been following me, as I thought, but must have been pulled aside by one of the Capitolite guests. Peeta smiles, but there is a trace of wariness in his eyes. The posh, cackling woman is engaging him in conversation. She had introduced herself earlier simply as Talia, apparently a Capitol ‘reporter’, though I can’t say I recognize her from anything in particular.

Peeta meets my eyes, before Talia runs her long nails down Peeta’s arm, causing him to visibly withdraw. Seeing him uncomfortable, I start to move forward, maneuvering between several Capitol guests.

I shouldn’t have assumed he was behind me. I should have been certain he was at my side.

Cutting around the end of the table, I see Peeta has moved away from Talia, and is over speaking with Cinna. He’s only a few paces from me. If I take two, long strides, I can reach him easily. Half-embarrassed at my instincts, seeing as he has taken care of himself, I look down at the platters nearest to me. An oversized fork lies above what I assume is a platter of clams, though only the teardrop-shaped shells, on which the slick, meaty innards are placed, give any indication of this.

Taking the fork, I attempt to scoop it out from the oil-drenched platter. The shell slips and slides, my frustration mounting until I finally pluck it, juices and all, from the tray.

“Katniss Everdeen,” a familiar voice purrs. Hot air on my neck makes me spin around, dropping the shell with a splat into the platter.

Tanned skin, bedheaded bronze hair, and famous bright, seagreen eyes.

No shirt.

Finnick Odair. Of course. This is his home district. Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games. The youngest Victor in history, he won at fourteen and over the past ten years has become the Capitol’s darling. Capitol fans couldn’t do much, not until he was sixteen, but once he was, they couldn’t get enough of him. He’s rumored to have lovers strung across the Capitol. Men, women, old, young, he’s had hundreds of indiscretions. He never takes the same lover twice. I can’t argue he would be beautiful to most people— Madge will blush, whenever a picture or program with him in it comes on television. Once, two years ago, Finnick appeared shirtless and drenched in oil during a Special Announcement. My mother gasped and covered Prim’s eyes.

His personality makes my skin crawl.

That, and Finnick Odair would be too easy to lose.

Peeta comes to mind, and I quickly search him out. Relief fills me, when I see he is laughing heartily with an short, elderly woman, as she points out at the horizon behind us.

Finnick clears his throat, and I glance back at him.

“Hello, Finnick,” I manage.

We should have rightly met during the Quarter Quell. His being in the city for the duration of the Games had been almost as exciting for the Capitol as the games themselves. He had been present at the Tribute Parade, but after that, as far as I know, he never set foot in the Training Center, nor in the Concourse, to meet with sponsors. He probably was sleeping his way through the Quell.

The two more recent Victors from Four had mentored, Ron Stafford, who won the 67th Games, and Annie Cresta, who won four or so years ago. It made sense, since they were the ones who had chosen this year’s tributes. Ron’s Games I only remember because one of his final kills had been named Primus, nicknamed, ‘Prim.’ With his fair complexion, I cried for an hour to my father that he reminded me of our little Primrose.

Annie Cresta’s games I only know of from reruns shown leading up to the Quell, and Peeta’s explanations. Annie had apparently gone mad, after witnessing her partner get beheaded. She won because there was an earthquake, which triggered a flood, and she had out-swam everyone else. The Quell was, I think, the first time she had made a public appearance since her Tour.

Annie’s tribute is this year’s Victor. After our tributes were killed, Tomie had camouflaged herself in mud and leaves, and kept to facing the dangers of the Arena on her own. It wasn’t until the end of the fifteenth day that her strategy became clear: the Careers had picked out most of the weaker tributes, and were now beginning to turn on one another. It didn’t help that the Cornucopia, on some sort of island in the middle of a ‘lake’, spun around and ruined most of their Sponsor-provided food stores. Once the pool was down to the Final Five, Tomie made her move. She took out the strongest Career, the boy from Two, when he ventured in desperation into the forest, searching in vein for water. After he was gone, the rest were relatively easy pickings for the girl from Four.

Annie hadn’t seemed entirely together in the Concourse. She seemed confused when Capitol citizens came up to congratulate her. In fact, while watching the finale, she was emotionless, a glazed-over expression in her eyes. Finnick was the one who spoke about Tomie during the Reruns. No one mentioned Annie’s mysterious absence, except for Tomie’s stating that she wished Annie could be on stage with her at one point. The only interaction we had with Annie or Ron was during Snow’s gathering of the Victors, before the Quell. Annie hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even met my eyes when she shook our hands. She laughed at one point, out of the blue, though.

Snow had made a thinly-veiled threat to her tongue.

“Welcome to West Beach,” Finnick quips, quirking a brow and grinning at me. 

He eyes my selection, and quickly plucks the shell from my hand.

“Oysters, nice choice,” he purrs. He runs his tongue across his upper lip, in what I suppose is meant to be alluring to Capitol women. I blanche at the action, though. The thought of finding any of this- the voice, the grin, the sweeping glances he is giving me- desirable is ridiculous. He leans in, whispering conspiratorially; “They’re an aphrodisiac, you know.”

My jaw clenches as I try to ignore my cheeks burning. Finnick brings the shell to his mouth, sucking the meat from the center before smacking his lips together.

“Mm,” he moans, slowly chewing on the meat before swallowing heavily. “Do you think Peeta would like some?”

“I don’t think so,” I retort.

Finnick’s grin becomes wolfish. “You don’t need help getting a fire going, I’m sure.”

I cringe at the implication. “Do you?”

“Oh, Katniss,” the way he purrs my name, low and gravelly makes me feel my skin is crawling again. “Me? I’m all about following my instincts.”

His hand just barely brushes my arm, and I pull away as quickly as I can. My skin begins to itch, and I barely keep myself from curling my arms across my stomach. Finnick pulls away, his posture straightening, and a flicker of a frown crosses his face before he slurps down a final oyster. He places the hollow shell upside-down on the edge of the buffet, tilting his head slightly towards the table. I look at the spot where his fingers are inconspicuously pointing, and freeze at what I see subtly depicted on the inside of the shell : a tiny, stamped bird. Not with the arrow and circle surrounding, but still unmistakably a mockingjay.

My eyes fly up to meet Finnick’s, and that frown is replaced by an easy grin. He chucks the shell over the patio’s bannister, before giving me a wink. 

“Enjoy your swimming lessons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, long time no see. thank you thank you thank you for reading, and thank you to those of you who have stuck with this fic thus far! I hope you're enjoying the last weeks of summer before autumn creeps in. any comments/etc. are always appreciated<3<3


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small mercies get even smaller.
> 
> [Or, not Katniss and Peeta.]

"Hey.” shards of glass drag across his tongue, shiny sparkly skin preened to perfection.

Hollow.

His eyes are dilated, bloodshot. Lips puffy. She dangles her legs off the side of the hammock. She hesitates. Keeps slow, deliberate movements, as if they were playing hide and seek. As if he will spook and flee. He pauses in the doorframe, eyes on the worn beams. He will not look at her, but he will not move into the house until she shows him it is all right. He never wants to bring  _that_ in here.

_ (She would let him a thousand times over if it helps him heal.) _

Dusky sunset drips across windowpanes, dashes the cobblestone of Four’s Victor’s Circle in varied shades and shadows. Taking a deep breath, she lets her bare feet pad across the sandy porch. Slides her hand into his. He lets her lead him inside, nudges the front door shut with a touch of his heel. She guides him up to his bathroom. He watches as if in a trance while she flips the switch for the hot-water heater, gathers mineral oils and salts. 

When the light on the heater turns green, she slides the faucet knobs into place, checking and rechecking the temperature until a soothing stream is filling up his large tub. It is designed for more than one couple’s pleasure. Jet speeds. Massage settings.

She is in a fuss of movements, and he catches her off guard when he slides his arms around her waist. She wants to kiss him, wants him to tell her what has happened; instead, she slides her hands around him, rubbing circles on his back.

“I can’t do this.” his voice is barely a whisper, husky and raw and breaking at the seams. He pulls away, and she lets him. He settles on the edge of the tub, head dropping into his hands. “I should just turn them all in.”

She reaches around him, pours the lavender into the flowing water, waits until the waves are just lapping a few inches to the edge before turning the water off.

“What if I—”

She kneels down in front of him, cups his face in her hands. She presses her thumbs to his forehead, kneads tension from his temples. He releases a sigh, eyes slipping shut.

“It’s asking for us to all to die.” 

She smoothes sloppy locks from his face. He has never been good with alliances that he cannot trust bone-deep.

“I’m on your side,” she tells him.  _ “Toutan.” _

“What if it’s the wrong side?”

She pauses, his eyes locking onto hers. He is looking for confirmation, for strength- for instruction. She knows what he is really asking:  _ what if I get us both killed? What if I turn the rebels in, in hopes that Snow grants us some semblance of a reward? Could you forgive me either way? _ But he should know the answer- what the answer has always been.

“We’ll be wrong together.”

His hand slides down, smoothes across her belly. He swallows heavily, his eyes raking back up to meet hers. 

We’ll all go down together, then.

“I’m on  _ your _ side, Finnick,” she repeats.  _ “Lanfè oswa dlo segondè.” _

* * *

**** She is halfway to sleeping when the screech followed by percussion rings out across the water. House shakes. Sky lights red. A dimly-starred night is now choked by smoke. Hands find hers; large palms, sweating just as badly, gripping her just as desperately. 

She just manages to calm her breathing. 

_ (We’re fine, we’re not bombed, they didn’t try to burn us, we’re all right, everything’s-) _

Blue now rips itself apart. 

_ (At least blue isn’t so ugly.) _

Applause echo from  _ somewhere, somewhere.  _

Window sheers will not stop bombs.

_ (Shame the valances aren’t made of sturdier stuff.) _

They do diffuse the colours, though.

_ (Small mercies get even smaller.) _

“What is that?” she manages, feeling her throat beginning to constrict. 

Breathing strains.

_ Foggy eyes. _

He does not respond, his eyes wide, reflecting black pools in a colorless darkness.

An onslaught berates them, endless bursts of sound, of color, until tears appear between lashes from squeezing eyes shut. He is in his senses enough to pull her to his chest. There, she can hear his own heart pounding, feel his skin is sweaty in both the humidity and anxiety. 

“Whatisit?” it comes out wrong, like her mouth is on the other end of a fraying line. 

_ Whatisit?Whatisit?Whatisit?WhatisitMakeitstoppleasethankyou? _

A hand slides up, covering her ear. 

She gains courage, gulping and following his line of sight. 

She can hear the explosion, now muffled, but cannot make sense of its beauty compared to its noise.

_ Pyrotechnics, _ she thinks he says. His chest moves, apple in his throat bobs. Light-show. For their service, in their honor.

She squeezes her eyes shut and pretends it is just a bad dream. 

_ (You’ve seen light-shows before, honey, why so scared?) _

“It’s supposed to be nice.” 

He does not sound like he thinks it is all that nice. His eyes are studying the continuing bursts of varied colour as if he can track them down and spear them. 

“Let me close the windows.”

She wants to say,  _ ‘I’ll turn on the central air.’ _ But it doesn’t make it out. 

Instead, she is keeping to the bed with hands pressed her ears. She wonders, if she could press her ears into her skull whether that would solve anything. 

He does not come back to bed. He flips the air on, letting the rattling of the house be a silent affair. Dilutes the sound. A pretty, silent picture. He stands at the window, hand parting the curtain.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark,” his murmur is slick with sarcasm.

She cannot bring herself to stand, or even to respond. Instead, they watch the light-show and try to pretend that what they have been quietly hoping for has not been forced on someone else.

* * *

 

“You’re supposed to come with me.”

The dawn bell in Town rings out to tell everyone curfew has ended. 

She should have seen this coming,  and yet -

“If Snow hadn't insisted-“

“Hush,” she murmurs, rolling onto her side and forcing a smile. She can feel the goosebumps up her arms, and she is sure if he were holding her he could feel her heart picking up speed. “I’ve always wanted to go to that resort.”

He does not look convinced, but nods. 

“They have good… food, you said.”

He leans closer, his voice as faint as he can make it in her ear.

“Plutarch said this way you come with us.”

Annie feels her stomach twist, breath short.

(Just in case, right? No audio-visuals of-- no no, it's _just in case.)_

“Okay,” she manages.

"I can't..."

"I know."

He can't say any more.

_ (What else is new?) _

"I'll try not to outshine you," she quips. 

He tosses his hair, and pulls that grin that normally makes her insides hurt from laughing too much. 

"You can try."

She keeps her lips in that happy-laughing-ah-hah-hah face. 

Pretending for a pretender.

Stylists do not knock. 

They just call out from the foyer.

_ Here goes nothing. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and for your patience. here is hoping #summerfromhell is treating you okay<3

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou for reading!! Hope this isn’t too dark(ish) or too short for the Anon who requested it! I’m probably going to make this into a longer fic because man I was getting really into this prompt and this is only a small portion of what I blabbered out!  
> also, Odesta may make an appearance in later chapters because I am awful :,)  
> (also also, the title is a WIP and may change) <3


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